


The Beautiful Thing

by doomcanary



Series: Conquest [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary





	The Beautiful Thing

Last night, Arthur had gazed into his evening fire, steepling his fingers and musing on the day's events. He was pleased that he'd managed his own expectations well; Merlin's compliance had almost surprised him. So much passion, such anger locked in that slim body; Arthur half wondered what Merlin was keeping from the world. But the pleasure of holding that shifting, coiling essence between his hands was incomparable; he recalls the rush as Merlin's hands locked on his elbows, pushing him away. Arthur kissed him, deliberately taking advantage of his strength, drawing him close; Merlin hissed at the chill of Arthur's mail, still clad only in his breeches. Arthur laughed, deep in his throat, and let Merlin go. He glared, dishevelled; he was all colour and skin, deep brown hair, vivid eyes, pale pink nipples tight with cold. He'd stepped closer to Arthur, looked for a moment almost as if he might return the kiss, then he'd snatched up his shirt and run from the room.

But the beautiful thing about someone as intense, as passionate as Merlin is that there's no need to take him down. Give him enough rope, and he'll hang himself. Or more accurately, Arthur thinks as Merlin is thrown to the floor in the throne room with iron chain clattering in his wake, he'll hurl himself over the edge, and trust in the magic of innocence to save him.

Such a mistake to make, in a place like Camelot.

“Arthur,” says the King wearily. “This is a matter internal to your household, I believe.”

Arthur, seated at the King's right hand, doesn't even bother to stand.

“Explain yourself, Merlin,” he says.

“What do you want me to say?” snaps Merlin. “I don't have a right answer. I'm not going to take insults lying down.”

“You are my servant, and your behaviour reflects on the crown itself,” says Arthur.

“It doesn't matter what I say anyway,” says Merlin. “You'll chuck me in the stocks the same way you always do. Doesn't seem to work that well, does it?” He shakes the shackles at his wrists; the chain clinks musically, then rattles on stone as the guard on his left backhands him for his insolence. Arthur raises his eyebrows, concealing wry amusement as Merlin picks himself up.

“A valid enough point,” he murmurs.

Uther's pale, wolflike eyes glance at Arthur. Under his habitually calculating expression is a growing anger. He is not a patient man.

“As I said,” he observes, “a matter internal to your household. However, I might perhaps remind you that more... creative punishments than the stocks are within the scope of Camelot's law.”

“Quite so, Father,” says Arthur, with a private smile. “I believe I have a suitable solution.” He beckons a guard, murmurs into his ear, and Merlin is dragged away.

There is more than one dungeon beneath Camelot; a veritable maze of them, carved out of the living rock. Some have been storerooms, others are mere dead ends, abortive tunnels descending into silence and chill. A few have windows, thick iron bars splitting wan light. In one of these Merlin sits hunched on the straw – clean at least – glaring sullenly at the door. He covers a start when Arthur unlocks it and strides in. He dismisses the guards briskly, and smiles down at Merlin.

“What?” Merlin spits.

“Should I offer you a choice, you insolent prick?” says Arthur casually. “I could just beat you. Or have you beaten; I've no need to sully my own hands with a dog like you.”

“Or?”

“Flogging; the stocks seem to have so little effect on you. You're quite right there. Or, of course, I could leave you here to rot.”

“Who'd clean your precious velvet doublets then? Arsehole.”

“Well, Merlin, if that's what you want.”

Arthur locks the door behind him, and orders the guards away.

 

 

When he goes back the next morning, pristine in exactly the doublet Merlin meant, there's half a loaf of bread on the floor, just out of Merlin's reach where he's chained to the wall. Gwen, undoubtedly; he made the correct choice of cell, then. The narrow barred window to the left of the door limits how a hand can reach in to throw food., and the chains place Merlin just out of range of where such gifts will land. Merlin deliberately does not look at the bread; Arthur kicks it into a filthy puddle by the wall anyway, and is rewarded with a tightening of Merlin's jaw.

From the heavy ring at his belt he takes a small, dull iron key, and twirls it thoughtfully between elegant fingers. His hands are bred for so much more than hunting and the sword; fine penmanship, diplomacy, the necessities of state.

“Perhaps, Merlin,” he says. “we can come to some arrangement.”

Merlin is silent. That much, he seems to have learnt.

“Perhaps,” says Arthur, crouching down to look into Merlin's eyes, wary under his dusty hair, “I will offer you a choice.”

Merlin's eyes widen, and then abruptly narrow again.

“There is always,” says Arthur quietly, “a choice. Do as I say, Merlin, or remain here.”

He looks for the softening, for the consent, but it doesn't come.

“Very well,” he says, and leaves Merlin for a second time. He orders water sent down to him, but nothing more; by the evening, when he returns, Merlin is looking pinched.

Arthur squats down, holds up the little iron key.

“Your choice, Merlin,” he says.

“What,” says Merlin. “What do you want from me.”

“I'm sorry, Merlin? I don't quite understand.”

Arthur is lying, of course; he knows exactly what Merlin means, but he feels it important that Merlin should say it himself.

“What do you want me to do,” says Merlin flatly.

“It's very simple, Merlin. I want you to do as I say.”

“I don't have much choice there, do I.”

Arthur leans back a little, considers him. It's true enough. The question is, how does he want the breaking of Merlin to go; is brutality really the most effective way?

Arthur stands, and leaves the cell. He hears the chains rattle sharply behind him, whisks out of Merlin's reach as Merlin makes a grab for his legs.

“You bastard!” Merlin yells.

Arthur turns, framed in the doorway, and smiles coolly; Merlin's chains are taut, he's reaching towards Arthur, stretched along the straw with naked fury on his face.

“You fucking bastard,” he says. “You're actually going to leave me here.”

Perfect. “Unchain him, and bring him to my rooms.”

 

 

In Arthur's chambers, a covered dish waits, and a rich savoury smell fills the room. Arthur quietly lifts Merlin's hands, holding his wrists firmly when Merlin flinches, and unlocks the shackles. There are purplish-red marks underneath them that will be bruises soon. He sets the shackles on the mantelpiece.

“Sit down, Merlin,” he says, “and eat. That is what I want you to do.”

Merlin looks at him, disbelieving and somehow lost. Arthur nods encouragingly towards the table. Merlin throws himself towards the chair, and devours the entire dish of stew. He's unattractively greedy, hasty with hunger. Arthur watches him, detached, and concludes that it was probably a good idea to order only a portion; Merlin would probably have made himself ill. When he's finished, as satiation replaces the frenzy, he suddenly sits back, wary again.

“Now what?” he says.

“Stand up,” says Arthur.

Merlin stands, and faces him. His eyes flick to the shackles, behind Arthur on the mantelpiece.

“There is always a choice, Merlin,” says Arthur softly. “But as of now, that choice is between doing as I say, or returning to the dungeons. What is your answer?”

There's a pause.

“I'll do it,” Merlin says.

“Good,” says Arthur. “Now; strip. Completely.”

He fingers the hilt of his dagger as Merlin undresses, and Merlin's eyes are fixed upon his hand.


End file.
